


summer silence

by mosalyng



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Distorted Reality, Kotonoha no Niwa AU, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 14:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13706688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosalyng/pseuds/mosalyng
Summary: A forgotten old garden, the sounds of the falling rain, and in the middle of it all: Junhui and Wonwoo.





	summer silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aivazovsky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aivazovsky/gifts), [fantatogo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantatogo/gifts).



> rated T for alcohol consumption; other than that, it's all nice and clean. unbeta'd, sorry in advance!

 

 

 

> I

 

  
There is a garden in the middle of Seoul, a secret no one but Junhui knows about — or so it seems.

  
Rainy mornings always find him there, sitting alone on a bench in a wooden gazebo near the pond. It’s the perfect place to observe the whole area; willows swaying gently in the wind to a non-existent melody, pine trees growing without any restraints. The way it’s designed reminds Junhui of a typical Japanese garden, except it’s not; azaleas and rhododendrons are almost completely unkempt and forgotten, beginning to resemble small trees rather than shrubs of flowers.

  
It’s always quiet, too quiet, and the only thing Junhui can usually hear is a cheerful chirping of birds. Leaves rustling in the wind, too, on a particularly bad day. The city noise is completely drowned out by the sounds of free-willed nature, making it seem almost unreal.

  
But ever since he started coming here, he’s never seen another person around. It’s understandable, he supposes, since the early morning hours are meant to be spent on commuting, not taking walks around forgotten gardens in the pouring rain.

  
It doesn’t stop him from doing it, though.

 

 ―

  
A steaming cup of coffee, lunchbox bought in a local supermarket the day before. The sky, dominated by dark and heavy clouds. Quiet sounds of the radio.

  
_This morning, the KMA declared the start of the monsoon season in Seoul, five days earlier than average. We can expect strong rains in the northern part of the county._

  
Junhui sighs and turns it off before getting up to do the dishes. He finds comfort in the gentle pitter-patter of droplets against the kitchen window and hums an old Chinese song his mother used to love while cleaning after his breakfast.

  
The calendar on the wall tells him it’s the second week of his summer school classes; ones his parents have paid for despite his resilient protests. He’s signed up for it with the intention of improving his grades, but the first week was enough to make him realize it’s not that different from his usual lectures; boring and taking up too much time for Junhui’s liking. Maybe the topic was the problem. He’s never had much interest in business and finances.

  
He gets on the right train half an hour later, almost late. It’s already crowded due to the rush hour, leaving almost no room for a new passenger, but he manages to board and decides to keep standing near the door rather than try to find a place to sit.

  
The first few minutes are calm, almost lifeless; he tries not to pay attention to the damp smell of some high schooler’s uniform and the strong cologne of a businessman standing next to him. Only when the man clears his throat and takes a sip from a bottle of water as if trying to get rid of a hangover, does Junhui wake up from his thoughts, just in time to get off at the station near the garden.

 

 ―

  
He notices something is off as soon as he enters through the wooden gate. The birds, usually welcoming and loud, are painfully silent now, flying around as if waiting for him to go further. Everything seems indifferent to the overwhelming heat; a gentle breeze touches his cheeks and allows him to take a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air. It’s the first time he’s been there during the summer, he tells himself, trying to justify the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  
He walks around for a while before reaching the small gazebo he usually sits in. Someone is already there, sitting in one corner of the small space.

  
It seems unreal, and makes him blink a few times to confirm it’s not an illusion his mind made up; but it doesn't take him long to realize that the man really is there, hiding in a coat a few sizes too big for his frame, head hung low.

  
Junhui observes him for a second; coal like hair, sharp features, an old book in his hand. He seems out of place, somehow, and doesn’t even notice Junhui’s presence. Or maybe he does, but prefers not to show and focus on the words in front of him instead.

  
He raises his head an hour later, sending Junhui a soft smile when they exchange little glances. There’s a warm feeling of familiarity between two strangers who’ve decided to spend the early hours in this particular garden; at least that’s what makes Junhui respond by nodding his head slightly and smiling a little. There is no need for words, so they just sit in silence, watching the raindrops fall. The man gets bored eventually and goes back to reading.

  
He starts reading out loud at some point, but his voice is quiet and careful as if he was trying not to disturb his companion. Junhui, however, doesn’t mind; he finds himself listening to the stranger’s deep voice, tries to make the sense out of the bits and pieces of sentences. They seem to be poems, he realizes, perfectly organized and leaving a deep impression.

  
There’s one he ends up writing down for no particular reason.

  
_A faint clap of thunder, cloudy skies; perhaps the rain will come. If so, will you stay there with me?_

 

 ―

 

  
The following day is also a rainy one, and Junhui doesn’t even think twice before making a decision to go to the garden again.

  
The man is there again, sitting in the same place he did the day before. There’s a small difference, however; he’s not reading, holding a worn out notebook in his hands instead of a book. The movements of his hand are quick as he writes something Junhui secretly wishes he could read.

  
“The things you recited yesterday - were they haikus?” Junhui says after mustering the courage. He doesn’t like it, talking to strangers. It’s uncomfortable, and there’s always someone who feels the need to point out his grammar or pronunciation mistakes, so he usually doesn’t bother. But the poem has been occupying his thoughts ever since he heard it, and that’s enough to make him overcome his fear of small talk.

  
“Oh?” the man is visibly surprised to hear his voice. He stops writing and raises his head, looking at him properly; not the pond, not the garden, just Junhui and the wall of rain that surrounds them. They share eye contact for a few seconds; it takes him a while, apparently, to realize what Junhui’s talking about. “No, but you're close. Tankas, but they’re quite similar to haikus.”

  
“I see,” Junhui says and nods his head as a sign of understanding. The stranger keeps looking at him as if he wanted to add something, keep talking, but eventually switches his attention back to the notebook in his hands.

  
Junhui leaves not long after their exchange, and waves slightly as he does. The man waves back, and soon they both lose sight of each other.

 

―

 

  
On Friday morning, Junhui wakes up to gray skies and a slight drizzle; it’s not enough to call the day rainy, but he decides to spend the morning in the garden nonetheless. Blames it on wanting to see it without the wall of rain that makes everything seem foggy and blurred - definitely not the shy writer, though.

  
When he reaches his usual spot, the stranger is already there. Junhui notices the notebook is open almost in the middle, and wonders if he’s far into the story, or just has a habit of starting on a new page.

  
He sits down after shaking the droplets off his favorite white umbrella and takes out a thermos he’d prepared before leaving his apartment. Green tea almost burns the inside of his mouth as he observes the birds that fly around the pond tirelessly, looking for something he’s unable to see.

  
“Would you like some?” he says suddenly, and surprises even himself. The man looks at him for a second before nodding his head lightly. His behavior shows no signs of hesitation as if he was expecting to hear the offer.

  
Junhui grins in response and pours the tea into a plastic cup before handing it to him.

  
“Thank you,” the man says and smiles softly. Junhui decides he likes it, both the smile and gentle look on his face. It suits him more than the worried one he usually shows, immersed in his thoughts. “I’m Wonwoo.”

  
“Junhui,” he answers and takes a sip despite knowing it’s still too hot to drink. He's afraid; of saying more, of consequences that come with introducing yourself. But then the stranger — Wonwoo — nods approvingly, slowly switching his attention to the handwritten words and everything remains stuck in Junhui’s throat for the rest of the morning.

 

―

 

  
The rain doesn't come the next day or the one after.

  
Junhui spends the weekend lounging around his apartment, reading fantasy novels and taking walks to the kitchen to open yet another bottle of water, fresh out of the fridge. He should be studying, or calling his parents, at least, but everything is too hot and too damp at the same time, reducing him to a sticky mess, tossing and turning in his bed.

  
He thinks about the garden, about the fresh air, about _Wonwoo_ and finds himself praying for rain.

 

―

 

  
“Are you a writer, perhaps?” Junhui finally manages to ask the next time they meet. The setting is the same; heavy raindrops, swaying willows, and Wonwoo on the opposite side. Except today, there’s no pen and no book; he’s holding a can of light beer in his hand, sips on it slowly. There has to be a reason for that change, but it seems too personal, too intimate. Getting to know each other’s names have made their conversations a little more natural and less awkward, but Junhui still doesn’t feel like asking.

 

“Is it that obvious?” Wonwoo answers and smiles shyly as he fixes his round glasses. He seems normal, not that different from usual, but his stare is almost piercing, and the way his syllables slur tells Junhui he’s slightly drunk.

  
“It's just... Your aura, I guess.”

  
Wonwoo ponders a little, nodding, and the next few minutes are filled with silence. Junhui watches him take sips of the beer and switches his stare to the pond every time Wonwoo catches him looking.

  
“What else can you guess?” Wonwoo says after a while, and there is a certain amount of melancholy and sadness in his voice. Something must've happened, at least that’s what Junhui thinks, to make him so different from his usual self. He could count the number of times he’s met Wonwoo on one hand, but he’s already managed to take note of many of his habits.

  
“It seems you're waiting for inspiration to come. You're probably stuck in the middle, judging by how much you’ve already written. You probably like the smell of earth after rain, since you always close your eyes after inhaling deeply,” he says and stops, realizing his hands have begun to sweat and shake slightly. “Sorry, did I say too much?”

  
“No, no,” Wonwoo answers. He sends him a reassuring smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, but Junhui is too taken aback to notice. “You’re very observant.”

  
“It's a part of my job,” he says instead of biting his tongue and staying silent. Those words aren’t true, not necessarily, but they used to and although quickly adapts to changes around him, that’s the one thing he can’t get adjusted to.

  
“Really? What do you do, then?”

  
“I’m studying business,” Junhui answers slowly, looking at his hands. “But I hate it more than you can imagine. I used to be a child actor, but then my parents had changed their mind and insisted on sending me to a normal school and studying something they’ve chosen.”

  
“So you still want to be an actor?” Wonwoo asks, and he seems curious, now; there’s a spark in his eyes and Junhui decides he likes being the reason for it, feels the need to keep it burning.

  
“Yeah,” he nods and tries not to let sadness wash over him. Wonwoo is a complete stranger, he reminds himself, but it’s easier to talk to him than to anyone he knows.

  
“I think it's a nice goal. I sincerely hope you make it.”

 

 ―

 

  
They don’t meet for a few days. Junhui comes back to the garden every day, only to discover Wonwoo isn't there.

  
He usually spends an hour watching the raindrops fall on the surface of the pond and listening to melodies chirped by the birds, but it feels too empty without Wonwoo’s presence, so he usually leaves early, without spending too much time there.

 

 

 

>  II

 

  
“I think it’s a good idea.”

  
He shouldn’t be doing this; calling Minghao in the middle of the night, sitting alone in his kitchen with no lights on. His coffee is already cold, but he continues to take small sips anyway, hoping it would wake him up, somehow. Heighten his senses. Make it all real.

  
Minghao waits for an answer to his words, but Junhui isn’t planning on giving him one. They’ve known each other for so many years, but that’s the first time the silence seems uncomfortable to both of them.

  
But none of this can change the fact that Junhui knows Minghao like the back of his hand, and in his mind’s eye, he can see the younger, running a hand through his hair, trying to come up with something to say.

  
“Junhui, I know… We aren’t together anymore, but... Please remember you’re very important to me. I’ll always cheer you on.”

  
There it is.

  
The world stops for a second, or maybe it doesn’t. Junhui can hear a raspy voice and doesn’t need to guess who’s Minghao sharing the night with, who’s the person asking him to come back to bed. He already knows, is fully aware that the traces he’d left in Minghao’s apartment have been replaced by Mingyu, Mingyu, and nothing but Mingyu. It had to happen, sooner or later. Maybe he should feel bitter, a little jealous, but there’s nothing Junhui feels at this moment, other than overwhelming exhaustion and longing for home.

A few minutes pass, but the clock hands don’t move. He’s sure; he’s kept his eyes trained on the clock ever since dialing Minghao’s number, waiting for the time to pass and heal all the wounds that keep him awake.

  
“Yeah,” he answers suddenly, tells himself it’s probably what Minghao wants; he’s never been good at refusing him, always choosing the safe option to make Minghao happy and keep quiet about the things that are burning his tongue. “Thank you.”

  
“No problem,” Minghao answers; his voice is quiet now as if hearing Junhui talk again made him calm down. Or maybe it’s Junhui who’s holding onto hope that the things he does still have any type of effect on Minghao. “By the way, it seems you’ve changed. Is it because of the person you keep meeting in that garden?”

  
Yes, Junhui wants to answer, because Wonwoo is unapologetic and everything Junhui wants to be but lacks the courage to. But hearing Minghao talk about him seems wrong as if those two worlds had no right to coexist.

  
“I guess,” he says to end the conversation, suddenly feeling so, so suffocated. “Good night, Hao. Say hello to Mingyu.”

 

― 

 

  
The next time he meets Wonwoo, there’s no book; only a can of beer. Again.

  
“I’ve bought more for later, but you can have one, if you want,” Wonwoo says and takes a sip, eyes trained on Junhui. There’s something different about him; something Junhui can’t pinpoint. It’s new, not being able to read Wonwoo. Over the course of weeks, Junhui has learned how to differentiate his moods, but the hesitation in Wonwoo’s movements throws him off guard.

  
Wonwoo hands him a can without waiting for his response and Junhui accepts, more out of politeness than anything else. The look on his face tells Junhui he’s in need of a drinking partner, and that’s something he can be for Wonwoo, at least, even though he hasn’t touched alcohol for a long, long time.

  
“You know how you told me about your parents forcing you to study?” Wonwoo asks suddenly and sets a now empty can on the bench. His stare is pointed at the wooden floor and Junhui knows, somehow, he’s not comfortable bringing it up.

 

“Yeah,” Junhui answers right away, staring at Wonwoo with patient eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  
“My mom called me today and told me she’d decided to stop supporting me since I’m not a student anymore.”

  
The words are followed by a sigh, and the sound of another can of beer being open. Junhui thinks he should stop him, maybe, but Wonwoo’s face shows no signs of intoxication, so he forces his hands to stay still and focuses on listening.

  
“I don’t mind, really. I’ve been working the night shift ever since coming to Seoul to be able to support myself without her help, so that’s not a problem. But the implication of these words is what’s making me feel sick. I guess she’s finally given up on me.”

  
Junhui is at a loss for words; nothing seems appropriate enough to voice out, and it doesn’t help that he suddenly starts feeling so, so small and insignificant for not being able to do the same, for running away across the sea to avoid his parent’s stares.

  
“I admire you for being able to suck it up and follow your head instead of your heart,” Wonwoo blurts out and turns to look at Junhui, now, as if he’s finally realized his words had a listener all along.

  
“I’m not worthy of being admired, though,” Junhui says quietly, fiddling with his fingers. Some birds fly by them, making a ruckus, but he’s too self-conscious to look up.

  
“But you are. You’re the one who came all the way there, to a foreign country you knew nothing about.”

  
But what Wonwoo doesn't know is that Junhui is exceptionally good at forgetting; about his family, about his ambitions, about himself. The thought is a painful reminder they're nothing but strangers, and the countless conversations they’ve had aren’t enough to change it.

 

―

  
For being so uncomfortable around strangers, Junhui is surprisingly good at getting attached to them.

  
That’s how he met Minghao, on a plane from Shanghai to Seoul, 36000 feet above the sea level. It was pure coincidence that made them sit next to each other, elbows brushing every time one of them moved. The flight didn't last long, but it was enough to spark a conversation, out of fear more than anything else; Minghao, scared of starting a new life and Junhui, shaking out of anxiety that used to get a hold of him every time he boarded a plane.

  
Maybe it was the altitude that made Minghao so easy to talk to, or maybe the fact their thoughts carried the same worries. Junhui didn't know, didn't feel the need to think about it as they talked endlessly, even after landing in the country that didn’t carry even an ounce of familiarity.

  
The circumstances and feelings changed eventually, but fear had always been there, gnawing at their thoughts.

  
Everything they had was made out of desperation and longing, as it soon turned out. It didn’t take Minghao long to kiss him for the first time, and Junhui didn’t need an enlightenment to know it wasn’t out of real, romantic feelings. Words of homesickness were still imprinted on Minghao’s lips even after they pulled apart, breaths still shaking from the kiss.

  
Junhui still, up to this day, wishes he never kissed him back, that the need of another human’s warmth didn’t take over his body and rational thought. Maybe if he tried, at least, to grasp at the straws, they wouldn’t have crashed eventually. (Maybe they would be still hanging out, as friends, eating takeout and watching Chinese dramas that used to always make Minghao cry.)

 

 ―

 

  
Wonwoo tells him about his stories sometimes, about the blood that spills from his fingertips every time he sits down to write. Junhui’s sure the expression on Wonwoo’s face, the one he makes while talking about it, is prettier than any corner of the garden they’re in. He finds himself wanting to kiss the words off Wonwoo’s lips, to be a part of a story the younger would write.

  
He knows the warmth he feels every time he sees Wonwoo’s face can turn hazardous; knows better than to act on fleeting feelings. He wants them to be real, this time, but there’s nothing that can be enough of a guarantee for their genuineness, so he puts out the fire, burning himself in the process.

 

 ―

 

  
He calls one of his friends on the last day of August. The rainy season is already gone, leaving behind nothing but occasional rainfalls.

  
They haven’t talked since Junhui’s birthday, but there’s no awkwardness; only warm words and loud laugh that makes Junhui think about the hours they used to spend together on the set. It’s uncommon, their relationship. They call each other once in a blue moon, but both know there’s no need for fake reassurance that would come with more frequent conversations.

  
“By the way, my friend is looking for—,” the man says suddenly, in the middle of sharing the stories from the set he’s currently working on.

  
“Don’t. You know I’m not coming back,” Junhui answers, his wide smile disappearing more and more with every word that leaves his mouth.

  
“Yeah, but I just want you to know. It’s a secondary role in a period drama, one you can easily get with my help, and a perfect way to get back on track. Think about it, for old times’ sake.”

  
It shouldn’t sound appealing, but the idea of coming back is a seed his mind has planted years ago. He calls back half an hour later, against all his better judgment; tells his friend to wait at the airport the next day and starts packing as soon as they stop talking.

 

―

 

It’s funny, really. He manages to pack his whole life in Korea into one suitcase and leave space for some local sweets his younger brother likes. There are some things he’d left in Minghao’s apartment and never bothered to pick them up, he supposes, but it’s not Minghao he wants to see before leaving.

 

  
(The chilly evening air brings a whiff of autumn and makes him shiver a little, but Junhui doesn’t mind as he takes a short walk to the station and boards the train. It doesn’t take long before he reaches an all too familiar gate and enters the garden for the last time.

  
He’s back to the start, all alone, but that’s not surprising; he didn’t expect Wonwoo to be there, anyway. He leaves a handwritten letter right on the wooden bench and waves the birds goodbye, smiling as he leaves.)

 

 

 

 

 

> III

 

  
The months that follow his return to China are spent on the set and in a small studio apartment that doesn’t feel like home, never could. It’s not that he doesn’t like it, quite the opposite; but the white walls seem too pristine, and he feels no need to leave small traces of him because no one is here to visit anyway.

  
He starts working on the drama his friend has got him into almost right away. It’s not that huge, but it’s enough; saying he doesn’t enjoy being called the nation’s younger brother (a nickname the press gave him after the character he plays) would be a lie.

  
But there is a thought at the back of his head, something he can’t help but think about almost obsessively; a name he doesn’t remember, a message that never comes. He remembers getting off the plane that brought him back to China, checking his phone right after passing through the gates. He remembers waiting for it, a text, maybe a phone call, but his mind feels empty every time he tries to recall who was the sender supposed to be.

 

― 

 

2:38 am _, you have a voicemail._

  
_Hey, it’s me. But you already know. I’ve been watching Scarlet Heart recently— I know you hate it, but that’s beside the point. I started crying at the scene of Zhang Xiao waking up. I don’t know why it made me call you. Probably because only you understand how much this scene always makes me sad. The truth is I’m tired,_ gege _. I’m tired of the mess we’ve made and the fact I can’t talk to you without being scared of hurting you. Am I pathetic? For aching for the old times? Do you know that feeling?_

  
_I miss you._

 ―

 

 

  
His mother calls him three weeks before the Lunar New Year, asks him to finally come home for the holidays. He agrees immediately, ignoring the uneasy feeling that settles in his stomach at the mere thought of going to Shenzhen. Old habits die hard, and he’s learned it the hard way: the need to keep his parents happy is still the only factor he considers while making decisions.

  
But it’s nice, he supposes, coming back. Being able to hug his small brother and getting dragged to play something kids these days are obsessed with. Eating his mother’s homemade food is also nice, considering he’s been forced to eat quick meals for so long.

  
“I’m proud of you,” is what his mother tells him that night, right after wishing him a good night. He can’t see her properly since the lights have been are already turned off, but the sincerity in her voice is apparent, and that’s enough to ease the crippling guilt he’s been feeling all too much.

 

 ―

 

  
“I’ve seen the drama,” Junhui hears Minghao say through the speakers of his phone. All the words are stuck in Junhui’s throat, but maybe he’s not the one that has the right to voice them out, so he keeps quiet, unsure of what to say. “I just wanted to say you’ve worked hard, I really hope you’re happy.”

  
It sounds like a voicemail rather than an actual greeting, but Junhui can’t blame Minghao for preparing the words he’d wanted to say. It’s one of the traits they share; not being able to voice out their feelings properly, without a shake in their voices, ready to expose every vulnerability.

  
“Thank you, really. I mean it,” and he does, because there’s a wave of affection for Minghao burning his chest, and maybe a small part of him is still not over it, but mostly it’s just yearning for the days they’d spent as friends before it all went down. “How have you been?”

  
“Good,” Minghao answers, tone lighter than before. Junhui knows him well enough to recognize the reason for it and smiles slightly, waiting for the explanation. “I’ve taken up photography. Mingyu says I should pursue it... Maybe choosing to study business was a mistake, after all.”

  
“Mingyu is right,” he says without any malice in his voice. Mingyu had always been right, after all. It’s the universal truth. “Neither of us was supposed to study it, I guess.”

  
“Yeah,” Minghao answers, followed by a breathy laugh. It’s good to hear it, Junhui decides. “By the way, are you keeping in touch with the person you’ve met in that garden?”

  
The words ― honestly, they weren't supposed to be here. Minghao was never supposed to say it, but he did, and Junhui’s head starts to spin, spin, spin until he stops being aware of his surroundings, can't focus on anything but the phantom pain in his chest, taking over every other feeling.

  
He hangs up, then, at least he supposes he does; Minghao's voice can no longer be heard, and the room goes silent.

 

―

 

  
Junhui is there, physically. In China. In his apartment. On the set. But his mind is always somewhere else, struggling to remember, trying to recall memories that have already melted into thin air.

  
(Or maybe they had never existed. Maybe nobody had made them.)

  
Minghao tells him everything he knows, the things he’d heard from Junhui once. It’s ironic, how he’s the only one to remember it now, and Junhui would laugh through tears if not for the grief that keeps him awake at night.

 

― 

  
Two years pass like this, with Junhui trapped between things he’d lost before even getting them, and life that never stops. He gets to star in a few dramas, movies, even, constantly striving to make a name for himself. Some would say he’s already managed to do it, but it never feels enough, so he devotes himself to his job, tries not to give in to the tides of his thoughts that threaten to engulf him.

  
His mother tells him he’d grown up, and he shakes his hand to tell her it’s not true. But it is, he knows it; his cheeks have become more refined, and the bitterness and anguish are long gone from his heart, making more room for purity and foolishness that once used to be a part of him.

  
He feels happy, all things considered; happy to be able to do things he’d longed for much for. Happy to be back home, wherever that is. It isn’t enough to make him satisfied, but that’s the kind of person he is, always yearning for more and more without giving himself at least a little bit of credit.

  
His relationship with Minghao starts gradually improving after that voicemail, because, well. He’s tired, too; tired of the ache in his bones and the shadow that follows him around. It’s awkward at first, but the feeling is inevitable, given the circumstances. He’s glad to have his friend back, for the most part.

  
(There is a small note he finds while doing a cleanout. He doesn’t remember writing it down, but it certainly is his handwriting, the Korean letters sharp and lopsided. It’s definitely connected to the things he’d forgotten, but the recollection doesn’t come. He starts carrying it around, hoping one day it’ll serve its purpose.)

 

 ―

 

“I might’ve landed you a role in Korea,” his manager says at the beginning of spring, and Junhui’s first thought is to refuse. There's nothing waiting for him, nothing worth coming back for.

  
But the other, more rational part of him knows he’s still in need of money (for his mother rather than himself), and Koreans are good at spending it, so he gives his manager a thumbs up and gets a proud smile in response.

  
The movie is based on a book he’s never heard of. He researches the author and finds out he’s new in the world of fiction, discovered not that long ago. The man is young, born in the same year according to the Wikipedia page, and Junhui feels a sting on his chest when he finds a picture of him from some press conference which had been held a few months prior.

 

 ―

 

  
Junhui comes to Korea at the end of spring, three days before the beginning of filming.

  
Minghao turns out to be the one he calls first, but it feels right when the younger waves vigorously from his spot near the arrivals gate; the feeling doesn’t vanish even when it’s Mingyu who greets them at Minghao’s apartment, smile wide and hands covered by oven gloves.

  
The first thing he does after catching up with the younger is asking him to guide the way to the garden; Minghao sighs, but agrees nevertheless, already checking the public transport timetables.

  
“It should be here,” Minghao says an hour later, confusion painted across his face. They're standing in front of a luxurious apartment building, modern but easily blending in the neighborhood. It’s definitely not what they’re looking for; there are not even trees surrounding the area that could fit the description Junhui had once given Minghao.

  
Junhui tears his gaze off the building and turns to look at Minghao instead, watches him run fingers through his soft hair and check the address again, again and again, until a frustrated huff leaves his mouth.

  
“I’m sorry,” Minghao says after a little while, and Junhui knows that he means it, so he sends him a smile wide enough to show all his gums.

  
“It’s not your fault, though,” he answers immediately, putting his hands on the younger’s shoulder to calm him down. He should be the one to get upset, but there’s nothing but a sea of disappointment left, now, and it’s not as if he had much hope anyway. “Let’s go.”

 

 ―

 

“You really don't remember?” Minghao asks him a few hours later. They're sitting in a kitchen Junhui knows well, but it's a nice memory. A warm one. There are two cups of oolong tea Mingyu has made for both of them before excusing himself and going to bed.

  
The lights are dimly lit and allow Junhui to properly look at Minghao, for the first time since his arrival. His once puffy cheeks are now gone, and the way he talks doesn’t carry his old habit of using hands to illustrate the things that are being described.

  
It takes him a while to realize Minghao is still waiting for an answer, sitting on the other side of the table. He looks slightly annoyed, but judging by the worried look on his face, his patience is far from wearing thin.

  
“I really don’t, Hao,” he answers the question finally and shrugs, looking at the cup of tea.

  
“That’s weird,” Minghao says and takes a sip when Junhui shakes his head to tell him it’s okay. “I’ve really done everything I could.”

  
“You’ve done more than I asked for,” Junhui says and smiles, genuinely grateful for his help, even if it was just a mean of redemption for the younger. “Thank you.”

  
“It’s been a while since I saw that smile,” Minghao says before reciprocating it with a smile of his own.

  
(Mingyu finds them three hours later, with the TV still on, sounds of an old Korean drama making for the background noise. He covers Junhui with a layer of blanket and picks up Minghao, who smiles at him sleepily as soon as he feels himself being lifted.)

 

 ―

 

The sound of breakfast being made is what wakes Junhui up. He stretches, trying to ease the pain in his bones, and realizes it’s already getting close to noon.

  
“Minghao has gone to work,” Mingyu explains quickly, as soon as he notices Junhui enter the kitchen. He’s wearing an apron and the sight brings Junhui a sense of comfort, so he tries to fight off a feeling of awkwardness that settles in the room.

  
They’d been friends too, once upon a time. Junhui still remembers introducing Mingyu to Minghao on the day of his 22nd birthday. The memory should bring a sense of betrayal, but it doesn’t, much to his own astonishment; he finds himself glad to be a contributor to their happiness, if anything.

  
They eat in silence, with occasional comments about the weather and questions about the movie Junhui is about to start filming. Junhui compliments Mingyu on the kimchi jjigae and the younger smiles, visibly content with himself.

  
“I’ve missed you,” Mingyu says after finishing his meal. “I’m happy you’re back.”

  
“I know. I’m happy too,” Junhui answers and means it.

 

 ―

 

The first day of filming is surprisingly nice, Junhui finds out as he stares out of the hotel window; rays of sunshine make their way through the curtains as he prepares himself mentally to meet the crew.

  
“Are you ready?” his manager asks an hour later, as he drives them to the set located in a village near Seoul. Junhui nods energetically in response, browsing through the script he’s read hundreds of times. The prospect of filming a Korean movie stresses him out more than he’d like to admit; when he voices out his worries, his manager comforts him saying the character he plays is a foreigner, anyway, so there’s no need to.

 

 

The time passes all too quickly and the sky is painted dark blue by the time he finishes working. Exhaustion settles in his bones, but he relishes the feeling and sits down comfortably, waiting for the person he’s supposed to meet.

  
It was his manager to arrange it, due to the request of the writer who’s written the book; Junhui understands it since the man is allegedly the one who’s played a huge role in the process of screenwriting.

  
He’s about to take his phone out and send Minghao a message when the sound of a knock fills the room, and when he opens the door, a man his age fills his line of vision. He recognizes his face immediately and flashes his most professional smile before opening the door wider and inviting the man in.

  
Something clicks in his mind, but he can’t put a finger on it other than the fact the person in from of him seems familiar, somehow.

  
“Jeon Wonwoo,” the man introduces himself, pulling him out of his thoughts. There’s no need for an introduction since they already know each other indirectly, but Junhui accepts it, smiling in the most courteous way he can.

  
“Nice to meet you, Jeon Wonwoo-ssi,” he answers, bowing a little. “I’m Wen Junhui.”

 

 

 

 

> IV

 

(On their third date, Wonwoo takes him to a garden he likes.

  
They end up kissing under a willow older than their world, its branches hugging the soil softly. It’s slow, almost painfully so, but the pace is fitting, somehow, and Junhui smiles into the kiss when he feels Wonwoo’s fingers run through his hair.

  
Junhui hands him the handwritten note when they pull apart; he still doesn’t know where did it come from, but he feels as if the words have always been dedicated to Wonwoo.

 

_A faint clap of thunder; whether the rain comes or not I will stay here, together with you._

  
Wonwoo smiles as soon as he finishes reading and says, “How did you know I love Man'yōshū?”

 

 

Maybe Junhui’s found his garden, and maybe this time it’s real; made of human bones and a heart that keeps beating.)

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to ask any questions in the comments! and thank you so much for reading if you've reached this point! ♡♡♡


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